


Drunk Texts 2: Drunken Hope

by LearnToShareFeanor



Series: Drunk Texts [4]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Erestor has a potty mouth, First date Jitters, M/M, Pre-Relationship, T for references to alcoholism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-13
Updated: 2015-10-13
Packaged: 2018-04-26 05:58:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4992919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LearnToShareFeanor/pseuds/LearnToShareFeanor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The continuation, as requested by a few reviewers, of Drunk Texts. This is the first meeting of Erestor and Glorfindel, and doesn't really get into the relationship yet. T for Erestor's potty mouth and references to his alcoholism. I recommend reading Drunk Texts first (I've even put it in order in the series), as you'll probably be pretty confused without it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Glorfindel

**Author's Note:**

> Drunk Texts 2: Drunken Hope. This is Glorfindel's chapter, and I'm intending on keeping these as two shots- one chapter from Glorfindel's view, and then the second from Erestor's. This is partially inspired by the poem in the first part of the chapter. Again, when "this" happens, speaking, 'this' is a text, and 'when italicized', is thinking.

 

 **The Climb** by **Adolfo Vasquez**

**Separating me from the mind disease,**

**Breaking through wine stain chains of pain.**

**Believing in something greater than me.**

**Stitching my wounds,**

**No longer on a path to certain doom.**

**Steps climb mountains.**

**All I need are two sober feet**

**To guide my heartbeat**

**To unimaginable dreams.**

                Before I could forget, I pulled out my phone and changed my contact from DRUNK GUY to Erestor. I’d already offended him by reminding him of his alcoholism, I didn’t need to add any more guilt to it. I also took the time to choose my clothes- this is pretty rare for me. Generally, I throw on a decent pair of sneakers, some decent workout pants, and either a lightweight polo or a workout shirt. I’m a personal fitness trainer, and occasionally I pull a few hours teaching first aid at the local college when money’s tight. I am, by no means, a fashion consultant.

                Finally, I just shrugged, pulled on one of my two pairs of jeans that didn’t have holes in them, a polo, my shoes, and left. And then I came back in. Did I really want to go on a date with some desperate alcoholic who I met when he texted the wrong number? Normal people didn’t go on benders as often as he does. It’s almost scary. I look up at the clock and get in my car. 5:40, I had enough time to get across town. ‘ _If he looks like a hobo, I’ll just watch the move and let him know that it was just a meeting as friends. No need to commit.’_

                By the time I reached the theater, it was already 5:58, and I had to run to get my ticket. I was stuck behind some old lady swearing that she saw the new Minions movie was on online, and that her grandson would be so sad…. Yadda yadda yadda, jeez, lady. I felt my phone buzz and took a look. Of course, it’s 6 now, and it’s from Erestor.

                ‘Hey, I’m here. Are you still coming?’

                I frowned. The line didn’t look like it was moving at all. ‘Yeah, I’m stuck in line behind an old broad.’

                I jumped as someone laughed nearby. There’s a man- dark hair, a little long, but way shorter than mine, throwing butter on some popcorn like it’s a desert and he, solely, was responsible for re-hydrating it. My phone buzzes again with, ‘Too bad. I don’t live too far from Mrs. Henderson (sp?), she’s always this annoying.’

                I glance over and realize the dark haired man is looking at me. _‘Thank God’,_ I think, even though I’m not religious. _‘Not a hobo._ ’. Now that I’m looking, he’s dressed much better than I am. His hair is long, but it’s neat, and doesn’t quite hit his shoulders. His T-shirt isn’t wrinkled, neither are his black pants, and his black leather jacket doesn’t have a stain or wrinkle on it either. ‘ _Please not a Goth.’_ I pray silently, and wave lightly.

                He laughs again, and decides to come over, tapping the old woman on her shoulder. She spins around and almost yells, “Oh hi honey, the Minions aren’t on! David’s going to be so sad!”

                Shaking his head, he yells back, “They don’t show until next month, and David’s in college! Spring break isn’t for a few months anyway!”

                She seems to accept this rather philosophically, and leaves, chattering on and on about ‘David’ to whomever will listen. He looks at me and shrugs. “I take care of her on Tuesdays and Thursdays for her kids. She’s got dementia.”

                Just then, I notice two very worried adults enter the lobby. The woman grabs ahold of the man and asks, “David! Is that you?”

                I turn my attention to getting my ticket, and just barely notice the sad look that crosses his face. Suddenly, I feel awkward about calling her an old broad. He seems to really like her, and though she was annoying for 5 minutes of my life, he willingly goes to her house and takes care of her two days a week, every week. By the time I have my ticket and a drink, though, his face is back to a mostly impassive but a little friendly expression, and the thought is tossed away. “So- Erestor,” I begin, stepping out of line, “It’s nice to finally meet you.”

                He doesn’t respond for a minute, and I have to wonder if I’m as terrible at this thing as I think I might be. I’m almost 40, and I haven’t been on a date since I was divorced several years ago- and Erestor doesn’t look to be any older than 25 himself. Oh, this is awkward. I really hope I don’t have to ask him if he’s jailbait. “I suppose it is the first time meeting face to face. Sorry, I just realized you work at the gym I usually go to.”

                He has an odd way of annunciating things, as if he’s used to slurring, and the though makes me uncomfortable. “Yeah, the one down on first.” Luckily, we’re halfway to finding seats, so I don’t have to continue the conversation. He doesn’t look drunk, and I can’t smell alcohol, but- _‘God, Glorfindel’,_ I think impatiently, ‘ _get over yourself. The guy drinks on occasion, it doesn’t mean he’s going to start barfing on you or that he’s drunk now.’_ I decide to make the rest of this date better. I’m really not being fair. For all I know- and everything I’ve seen tonight- he’s just a normal guy, a bit down on his luck.

                The movie’s surprisingly good. I don’t generally watch anything but Bond films and action movies with enough explosions to make Michael Bay cry in joy, so it’s a shock to me. Erestor has good taste- another strike I add to the mental tally of ‘Crazy Drunk Guy’ versus ‘Kinda Cute, Possibly Dateable’.

                We didn’t discuss having dinner, but I decide to invite him anyway. “IHop’s always good,” is the response. So I don’t have to explain my strange infatuation for breakfast foods? All the better! On our way back to the parking lot, we chat a lot- mainly about the movie. Erestor’s read the books, which doesn’t surprise me, and I haven’t. Apparently that marks me down one on his own mental list, judging by the shocked look he gives me.

                “Hunger Games?”

                “Nope. Is that the one where the chick gets set on fire?”

                “Oh God. Harry Potter?”

                “Well, the movies were pretty good. I haven’t read the books, though, no.” I finally decide to save myself. “I watched the Percy Jackson movies, and they were pretty good.”

                He makes a wounded noise and feigns falling. “No, no, no! I can’t believe you! The movies sucked balls! Oh, you’re just going to have to read them. Then you’ll see what I mean.”

                I snort in amusement. “Over-dramatic much?”

                He glances at me. “I am a novelist. Drama- and melodrama, of course- are my bread and butter.”

                I shake my head and unlock my truck. “Yeah? That sounds interesting.” I’d thought about being a writer once, but then I realized that I didn’t really _like_ to read, and that it would involve sitting down for more than half an hour at a time. Not my style. “Do you want to just ride with me? I can drop you off back here to get your car or whatever.”

                He laughs. “Yeah, I’ll take the ride, thanks. But the busses don’t run after 9, so I’ll just walk back to the house afterwards.”

                He gets in the passenger seat as if it wasn’t the weirdest thing anyone had said to me in a long time. He didn’t have a car- or was it in the shop? I decided to ask while leaving the parking lot.

                “So, do you just take the bus everywhere?”

                “Yeah, until my bike is fixed. I let one of my friends use it- motorcycles are way more comfortable for cross country than you might think- and he wrecked it. He’s paying for the repairs, of course.”

                That makes a lot more sense than just taking our lousy bus system everywhere, or walking- especially in the bad parts of town. “I’ve never really ridden a motorcycle, so I wouldn’t know.”

                Once again, he makes that wounded noise, and I can’t help but laugh at it. “Never? Oh man, once I get my baby fixed, you’re going to have to. All the wind in your hair is _perfection_.”

                I grin and roll the windows down. “Is this better for you?”

                For that, I receive a playful nudge to the shoulder. “Still not the same, blondie, but good enough for now. We’re pulling into the parking lot now and I wonder- how is this going to work out? I actually do want this to work out, which is surprising enough, but we’re both beyond different. I shrug philosophically, and open the door to the restaurant. It’ll come the way fate deems it, nothing I can do to change it, really. I’ll just enjoy the moment, I think. 


	2. Erestor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is Erestor's side of Drunk Texts 2: Drunken Hope. Don't read if you don't like Erestor calling Glorfindel a pretty boy. :-)
> 
> Hey! I now have a gmail that you can contact me at if you'd just like to chat, or to give me prompts, request gifts, ect. It's LearnToShareFeanor@gmail.com. You can find it on my profile as well.

**The Climb** by **Adolfo Vasquez**

**Separating me from the mind disease,**

**Breaking through wine stain chains of pain.**

**Believing in something greater than me.**

**Stitching my wounds,**

**No longer on a path to certain doom.**

**Steps climb mountains.**

**All I need are two sober feet**

**To guide my heartbeat**

**To unimaginable dreams.**

                I’ve been writing all day, but for some reason the typical charnel house style horror that comes so naturally to me just isn’t happening. Instead, I settle for suspenseful. That’ll do for an introduction, and I can work on the more violent parts as they come. I frown- it’s still isn’t working. I’m just about to grab a piece of paper and re-do my story outline when I see the time. “Shit!”

                As fast as I can, I take a shower- when you drink as much as I do, there’s a smell. _I_ can’t smell it anymore, I’m too used to drinking this stuff, but I know from experience that others can. It might just be something Fin would comment on. I don’t really know him yet, but from the texts we’ve exchanged, he’s definitely the kind of guy to say what he means.

                I don’t take particular care in my appearance after that. A nice pair of jeans, a good Disturbed T-shirt, my favorite jacket, and a pair of loafers, and I’m finished. One of the tricks of being a heavy drinker and _not_ being found out about is surprisingly simple. I don’t look like I’ve been on a bender because my clothes don’t. Hell, most people look at your clothing long before they look at your face. It’s why you know who your friend is talking about when they say – the girl in the white sweater- instead of – the girl with the green eyes.

                I take Daisy out again, give her some food, and leave her in the yard. She’ll come back in when I get back home- the air is cool, but it’s not cold, and it’s just the kind of weather she loves. Then I set off on the walk. It’s not a short walk at all, and I’m thankful I took my jacket with me.

                By the time I’m there it’s nearly 5:40, and it’s 5:50 when I start getting worried. I ignore the worry. Maybe it’s the time I spend on horror novels, maybe it’s the time I spend watching horror movies, or maybe it’s the fact I haven’t had a drink since the night before last, but I’m nervous for no reason. Finally, I give in to the urge to text him at 6. The movie’s starting now, and I need to know if he’ll show or not.

                ‘Hey, I’m here. Are you still coming?’ Blunt, I know, but it’ll work. In the meantime, I soak my popcorn in butter and cheddar flavoring.

                ‘Yeah, I’m stuck in line behind an old broad.’ I glance up, and immediately my mood goes south. I’ve seen people laugh at Mrs. Henderson, but all I can do is pity her. She didn’t ask to lose her mind, and she isn’t dangerous or anything- just slightly off. Still, I have to admit, she can be very off putting without a drink in one hand.

                ‘Too bad. I don’t live too far from Mrs. Henderson (sp?), she’s always this annoying.’

                I take another look at the line, and a blonde tosses me a wave. That must be him, then, and I can’t help but laugh. He looks extremely uncomfortable. Deciding that the faster I got her out of the line, the faster I could actually get to the movie, I moved over to her and tapped her on the shoulder.

                “Oh hi honey, the Minions aren’t on! David’s going to be so sad!” Damn, not David again. Her grandson hadn’t spoken to her for a year, and now she was going to be upset.

          I yell back, “They don’t show until next month, and David’s in college! Spring break isn’t for a few months anyway!”

                Sometimes I wonder if she knows. The way she looks at me, the slight horror hidden somewhere behind those old, wrinkled eyes, makes me want to just skip the movie, take her home, make sure she’s okay. She turns away from me before I can do it, however, and leaves, starting up random conversations with strangers as she does. She only does this when she’s nervous, upset, or both. I see her kids come in, though, and feel relief.

                I feel those blue eyes on me and turn to look at him. “I take care of her on Tuesdays and Thursdays for her kids. She’s got dementia.” I don’t know why I feel that I have to explain, but for some reason, I do.

          He steps out of line, says something stupid and generic- I think it’s how it’s nice to meet me- and I realize that he’s the hottie from the gym. Oh, how awkward. How many times have I stared at that delicious ass when he bends down to pick up weights for people? I can see that I’ve weirded him out, so I spit out the first excuse I can think of. “I suppose it is the first time meeting face to face. Sorry, I just realized you work at the gym I usually go to.”

          He smiles at me, tells me that it’s the one on First (as if I didn’t know already), and looks like he’d rather not be here. Anger wells up. ‘ _If you didn’t want to be here, jackass, why did you agree?’_ I stop talking as we enter the theater- I hate people who talk during movies- and Maze Runner is pretty much what the reviews promised.

          “Hey, would you like to go get something to eat?” He asks. Apparently, I haven’t made him want to run for the hills as I’d thought.

          “Sure. IHop’s always good.” He nods and seems quite happy about my decision. Unthinking, I ask him if he’s read the books. He gives me the most heinous answer possible. _‘Settle down, he’s had to have read_ something.’

          “Hunger Games?” I ask. They’re pretty popular right now.

         “Nope. Is that the one where the chick gets set on fire?” He sounds cheerful, as if he _hasn’t_ just spoken blasphemy. I debate asking him about Mortal Instruments, but then decide it’s better to at least have some hope.

         “Oh God. Harry Potter?”

        “Well, the movies were pretty good. I haven’t read the books, though, no.” I have to fight an eye-roll. Well, he’s pretty, but not an intellectual. “I watched the Percy Jackson movies, and they were pretty good.”

       “No, no, no! I can’t believe you!” And to think, I’d previously had so much faith in this pretty boy. “The movies sucked balls! Oh, you’re just going to have to read them. Then you’ll see what I mean.”

He snorts at me, of all things. “Over-dramatic much?”

Sticking my nose in the air, I give him my best impression of my drama teacher from high school. “I am a novelist. Drama- and melodrama, of course- are my bread and butter.”

He shakes his head and opens the door to a ridiculously large, blue truck. ‘ _Overcompensating much?’_ “Yeah? That sounds interesting.” Interesting wasn’t the most common response, but it was better than some of them. “Do you want to just ride with me? I can drop you off back here to get your car or whatever.”

Or whatever’s more like it. My poor, poor baby. I laugh, trying to lighten my mood after the mention of my poor, darling. “Yeah, I’ll take the ride, thanks. But the busses don’t run after 9, so I’ll just walk back to the house afterwards.”

          I have to use the built in ledge to get in, and I want to roll my eyes again. Really? “So, do you just take the bus everywhere?” He asks.

                “Yeah, until my bike is fixed. I let one of my friends use it- motorcycles are way more comfortable for cross country than you might think- and he wrecked it. He’s paying for the repairs, of course.” At least, if Elrohir doesn’t pay the repairs, both his parents, his girlfriend, and his brother are going to find out where he was going, and I don’t think he wants them to know about the pretty little girl he has on the side.

He nods. “I’ve never really ridden a motorcycle, so I wouldn’t know.”

         Horror builds in me, and I can’t stop the low keen that escapes from my throat. “Never? Oh man, once I get my baby fixed, you’re going to have to. All the wind in your hair is  _perfection_.”

He smiles and rolls down his windows. “Is this better for you?”

So not amused. I hit him- just lightly- and have to pull my hand back. All that muscle, I can understand why he never _needed_ much of an education. “Still not the same, blondie, but good enough for now. He pulls into the parking lot and stops his truck, getting out. We’re quiet- the highway nearby is too loud right now to speak anyway, and enter the restaurant. He even opens the door for me. I think I might just keep this sweet, big, pretty boy. 


End file.
